Stormcallers: Chapter 27
Now hush! Listen! Hear the silence of the night, that fateful night, when Rukiya slipped through the slave-door and crept out towards Kerrom’s pit.
Close your eyes. Tightly now! See the darkness that filled the corners of Tarras Bastion, the long and deep shadows that hid her from the Madrainian’s watchful eyes.
Brave and clever Rukiya, she knew how to be still as the tree, silent as the rock. She moved as silently as a quayla, and like a river-rabbit she hid in the shadows until she was certain there were no predators around.
At last she reached the Pit. She pulled back the wooden door and whispered into the darkness, barely loud enough to be heard, like this. “Kerrom?”
She listened. Hush! She listened close. Her ear pressed to the hole, straining to hear the sound of her friend. Again she whispered: “Kerrom?”
She listened. Hush! Her anxious fingers gripped the side of the wooden lid, the sound of her own beating heart louder than any answer. Was she too late? Had her friend died, alone in the darkness beneath the sky? A third time she whispered: “Kerrom?”
She listened. Hush!
A sound! A sound in the depths! A croak from a dry throat cracked with despair: “Rukiya?”
How relieved she was to hear Kerrom’s voice! With steps as soft as rain, she ran to the thick dew-barrels resting against the walls of the fortress. She cupped her hands, like this, and dipped them into the cool water.
“I have brought you water again,” she said as she tipped her fingers, like this, and poured the water through the hole. In the darkness, she could hear the sounds of drinking.
“I have brought you bread again,” she said as she pulled scraps of crust she had saved, and dropped them into the hole. In the darkness, she could hear the sounds of eating.
“I have brought you hope,” she said as she pushed her lips closer to the hole. “I have met someone, a woman. She has promised to save us. I do not know when, but one day you will be free again, Kerrom. We will flee from this horrible place, and you shall see the skies again. Now I must leave before I am found.”
But oh, how those words struck Kerrom in the heart! With a throat newly wet, he spoke: “Please do not leave me alone. There is nothing but darkness here, and I cannot bear it. I beg you!”
How it pained Rukiya to hear these words! “Do not beg me. If I am found they will whip me. They may shackle me, and I will not be able to come again to give you food and water.”
Now you must understand, dearest mine, that Kerrom had once been a Knight of Rayan. To be a Knight of Rayan, indeed, to be a man of Madrain, is to never complain, nor beg, nor want. Suffering must be endured, for this is a mark of strength. To be a man is to be silent in suffering, violent in war. This is what Kerrom knew in his heart.
But this meant nothing in the pit. What was strength in the pit? What was courage with no enemy? What was silence with no one to listen? The pit had stripped the bonds of his heart away until there was only the deepest part of himself, the piece of Kerrom that the darkness could not take, and he had found pain, and fear, and loneliness.
“I do beg,” he said. “I am alone and I am weak. There is nothing in the pit, and without you I join the nothing. I have been alone and silent for so long, I cannot bear it. Please, do not leave me to suffer in silence any longer.”
What could Rukiya do? She had seen Kerrom’s strength and bravery. What suffering must he have endured to make him plead like a child? No warrior of the Orenda would dare ask another to risk themself for their own sake.
But Rukiya was not ashamed for Kerrom. No, her heart beat in sympathy with his own. If she left, what pain would she cause him? Did she have the right to spare her own agonies at the cost of his?
Kind Rukiya, she knew the answer true, and lay herself down next to the wooden lid. For hours she stayed, whispering softy into the darkness. She spoke of the time they had shared on the Prezon, and how grateful she had been to find Kerrom still alive. She sang songs, and told stories from the Archepelago of Lergos. She told him how much Madrainian she had learned, and her life as a slave.
With every word, Kerrom became more himself until at last he said: “You are so strong to survive. I would not be able to bear the shame. I cannot even bear the darkness. I begged you like a child. I am no more a man. I am broken.”
But the words of Vishala remained in Rukiya’s heart: “If you are not a man, it is because no man deserves your treatment. What is broken can be mended, and shall never forsake you while hope remains.”
But time marched on, and before much longer the Light Above glittered on the horizon, peeking over the walls of Tarras Bastion. Rukiya was forced to whisper her goodbye to Kerrom, closed the door in the wooden lid, and stood to leave.
But alas! Poor Rukiya, she had not heard the feet behind her. No sooner had she stood than a thick hand gripped her hair. The heady stench of the Slavemaster seized Rukiya’s nostrils as she was yanked from the well and across the courtyard.
Once more was Rukiya brought to the two wooden posts that formed a cross in the earth of Madrain. Once more her legs were bound, her dress pulled from her chest, and her arms tied above her head. Once more she heard the soft patter of the lash on the courtyard stones as it was freed from the Slavemaster’s belt.
Her heart quickened in fear, but she did not regret. No, Strong Rukiya did not question her choice to stay and speak with Kerrom. If she had left him, true, she might have been spared the lash; but she knew this to be the act of a coward.
Know this, dearest beloved, the lesson of the lash: to help another is to hurt yourself. When another is whipped, it is not you who suffers. Punishment is given only to those who disobey. This is the lie of the lash.
But Rukiya knew now a great secret: these were nothing but whispers of the storms, eager to tear us apart. Kerrom suffered. The slave-girls suffered. Who was she to demand she not suffer at their side?
The Slavemaster’s hot breath curled around Rukiya’s ear: “I’ve never had a girl up here more than three times. I don’t like scarring my property, but if you put yourself here again, I can promise you that you’ll never touch ground again. I’ll peel your back from your spine.”
Rukiya closed her eyes, and waited. Before, the waiting had been unbearable, full of fear. Now, every moment before he began was another moment to be savored, cradled, and felt in its entirety.
“Jik!”
The lash struck her skin, pain blossomed across her back; but brave Rukiya did not pull away. She did not fear the pain, but knew it to be the price for her compassion.
“Do!”
She would not flee the pain. She would not hide from the world. The Slavemaster was whipping her. To flee from the pain was to deny his cruelty. She would never do that.
“Tni!”
She saw in front of her, across the courtyard, three slave-girls who had stopped to watch her punishment.
How beautiful they were, these slave-girl’s eyes. They bore witness to the pain she was being forced to endure. Where once she saw the slavish inaction of curious animals, now she saw the only form of connection the slaves were allowed; awareness of each-other’s pain. What the Slavemaster likely thought was instructive had become their own form of protest.
Rukiya was not alone. There were others out there who knew of her suffering. The slaves who stood and watched; some of them had suffered as she now did. Now they stood watching, and a bond stronger than blood and steel was forged with every crack of the Slavemaster’s lash.
“Caan! Hac! Sham! Denpa!”
But the lash did not fall at the Slavemaster’s last count. The pain did not come. At the distant cries from the walls of Tarras Bastion, the Slavemaster’s hand grew limp. All in the courtyard cast their gazes up into the dark sky. Flashes of color met Rukiya’s eyes as the clouds glowed red, then parted as death rained from the sky.
How to describe the horror that was the Herathian assault on Tarras Bastion? The blood and fire still comes to many a Madrainian in their nightmares.
Tarras Bastion, once called The Inconquerable, had never been threatened by man nor army. Their walls were deep and strong, the ramparts mounted with ballistae and cannon. Mighty armies could not penetrate the thick jungle without losing men and supplies. No ship could fly near without falling to bolts as thick as trees. Many a warlord had tried to breach the walls of Tarras Bastion, their bones still lie under Madrain.
But clever Teschemar, he had never stopped thinking of the inconquerable fortress. His plans and plots had spanned years as he prepared his mighty blow. He knew the strategies of generals and soldiers would fail, as they had many times before, so he looked to the greatest hunters he knew. He looked to the Saqur.
With the barrels of Storm-breath given to him by the Erwind Trade Conglomerate, he lifted the entire Herathian Armada higher than it had ever flown before. Above the clouds they flew, beyond the sight of scout or soldier. Guiding the way was a single ship, small and swift as a fish. It flew beneath the clouds from Norrholt to Madrain, guiding the armada with a clever invention of Teschemar’s engineers. Attached to arrows, the fuse burned hot until the flare burst into a brilliant light, strong enough to pierce the deepest clouds.
The armada followed these flashes through the impenitrable mists, until the flare burned a brilliant green. It was the last flare the brave sailors lit, as their ship fell to Madrain, pierced by the mighty bolts of Tarras Bastion’s ballistae.
There was no joy in the cries from the Madrainian soldiers. What pleasure was there in a victory so easily attained? There was not but confusion in their yells as they waved their weapons over their heads.
Their celebration was cut short by the arrival of Teschemar.
The Herathian Armada descended through the clouds like hawks. Giant ships with dark wood hulls, their balloons groaning under the weight, pushed through the mists towards Tarras Bastion. Their meteoric drop preceeded by another ship, as small as the first, whose descent did not slow, but sped faster and faster towards the walls of Tarras Bastion.
As thick as trees and barred with mighty metal portcullises, there had never been an army who had survived long enough to make a dent in the giant hardwood gate. But times had changed. There were new ways of fighting wars, and new weapons. Perhaps cannons could have sufficed, or carefully built and guarded trebuchets.
But to Teschemar, there was only one way to true victory. Success could not be stolen, or tricked away from a foe. It could not be won through words and contracts, politics and smiles. Victory was only worthy if it was achieved through superior strength and sacrifice. So he had called for two Bands of soldiers, twenty men all told, to offer the ultimate sacrifice. Their names would be sung in song for generations. Their families praised and honored as long as the Red Saqur flew over Madrain. Teschemar had no shortage of volunteers.
At the chosen moment, two of the sailors fired their flares at the canvas balloon above the ship. A thunderous crash shook the sky as the vessel burst into flame. The storm-breath inside burned a shimmering orange, and the ship plummeted like a stone towards the gates of Tarras Bastion.
In the ship’s hold, another sacrifice was made; twenty metal barrels of lift-gas that exploded on impact, shedding burning metal among the shattered skeleton of the Herathian ship. Iron snapped and twisted, wood burned and crumpled. Stone which had stood solid for centuries now cracked and crumbled to the ground under the force of the explosion. In minutes, the once impervious walls of Tarras Bastion were breached.
The armada continued to descend. Five of Teschemar’s new flat-bottom ships, called Kahnaks, came to a rest between the jungle canopies and the walls of Tarras Bastion. Hanging from their long bowsprits, the red flags of Herathia fluttered in the warm wind. Above Tarras Bastion, ten vessels bristling with cannon, called Tuvars, slowed their descent to hang ominously above their startled prey.
As one, cannon and rifle burst out from the Herathian ships. Ballistae were shattered and soldiers scattered as the descent of the Armada became a rain of fire, iron, and death.
No sooner had the cannons begun to fire, then the Kahnak vessels opened their sides, revealing an entire Talon of the Herathian Military. Where once was silence, there now was terror. The resounding warcry of one-thousand Herathian soldiers echoed through the jungle as the soldiers advanced towards the shattered gate.
The shanty-town that surrounded Tarras Bastion was not unprepared. Warriors and soldiers from across Madrain had escorted their nobles and merchants. Now they assembled as the first defense against the invading army of Herathia. From the ramparts that still stood, the Madrainians retaliated. Archers and crossbowmen took aim with their broad-head arrows, piercing the thick armor of the Herathian infantry. Large handgonnes pivoted on stands, while small cannons were loaded and fired.
Alas, the soldiers of Herathia were no mere merchants nor nobles, but soldiers bred and trained for war. They cut their way through the proud and savage Madrainains, blood dripping from their spears.
But lo, though the gates were broken, not so were the spirits of the warriors of Madrain. Through the breach came the fabled Knights of Rayan! Legends are told of the mighty soldiers of Madrain, who each swore an oath to serve until death the will of their island’s king. Each was a legend unto themselves, famed across the island for their strength and prowess in battle. They were masters of every weapon, and even could best a fully armored soldier with their bare hands. One alone, they said, could stand against ten men.
But it was not one Knight of Rayan who stood in the breach of the walls, but ten! No, twenty! No, a hundred Knights stood proud and strong to defend their king from the bloodthirsty claws of the Herathian Empire. They shone, resplendant in sparkling armor, weilding their festnas as large as spears. Their armor was covered in leather skins of slain animals, the strong and the deadly.
But in the eyes of Teschemar, this was the folly of the Knights of Rayan; there was no animal more deadly than a human.
The Knights charged through the breach, their cries promising death to all who dared stand in their way. But the Herathian army did not break nor run, though many were sore afraid. They had faith in their Commander, and knew he would not leave them do die on the tip of a Rayan’s sword.
And lo was their faith rewarded! As the Kights of Rayan charged, a cry went up from the hanging ships overhead. Ropes tumbled into the courtyards of Tarras Bastion, and a full hundred men poured from the ships, falling from the sky like drops of blood. On their backs, wooden wings adorned with Saqur feathers. Their armor glittered in the dawn light, as black as night and as shiny as ice.
For this was Teschemar’s great army, his magnificent Winged Saqurs. A hundred soldiers armored in the cloud-steel of the Hakhi, stronger than any bullet, sharper than any sword. They landed on the earth of Madrain like a monsoon, marching towards the Knights of Rayan, severing them from their fellow soldiers.
And thus was the battle won. In their pride the Knights of Rayan turned from the Herathian army to face this new foe, these shadowy demons bedecked in black steel. But no, even the mighty Knights of Rayan could not pierce the cloud-steel of the Winged Saqurs. Their festnas’ bent, their armor broke, and one by one the unstoppable warriors of Rayan were slaughtered.
Where once there was war, now there was slaughter. Cries of battle became screams of fear. The women and children of Madrain cried out for mercy as Teschemar’s mighty army marched through the breach and put thousands to the sword.
And so it was that the Inconquerable Tarras Bastion was conquered.
How brightly burned the heart of Teschemar! How glorious was his victory! How strong was his pride, how fierce was his joy! The Law had once more been fulfilled, for as he knew water ran downhill, as birds flew and fish swam, so did he know that the might of Herathia would spread. Madrain would be conquered by his great engine of war. A true victory, forged from steel and blood, not ink and paper. In the fires of his rifles and cannon, he saw the Law fulfilled.